


I am never without you (A home across’t the Mountains)

by frogo



Category: Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, King Arthur (2004)
Genre: 5 times the knights were idiots, 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Dubious ceremonial traditions, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, F/M, Fluff, Gen, I just like making up this stuff, M/M, The complicated familial bonds that form in a death band of knights, The movie is so historically inaccurate I’m just treating it as a sandbox at this point, Weddings, and the 1 time Galahad had to spell it out for their dumbasses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:53:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29834904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frogo/pseuds/frogo
Summary: 5 times the knights didn’t realize tristhad were more than just close brothers + the one time they (finally) did.Or, alternatively, The familial bonds that formed in Arthur’s band of knights, and how utterly blind and emotionally unintelligent they can be: an exposé.
Relationships: (referenced) Arthur Castus/Guinevere/Lancelot, Galahad/Tristan (King Arthur 2004)
Kudos: 2





	I am never without you (A home across’t the Mountains)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bloodyhalefire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodyhalefire/gifts).



> I think the word across with a hard T tacked on at the end is very sexy and has medieval vibes. Don’t ask me why, I don’t have any reason. 
> 
> This wasn’t beta read, which was probably a bad idea, but I was just too excited to post this :) hope you’ll forgive my fanfic etiquette 
> 
> Also, take everything Lancelot thinks in regards to the hanky panky with a grain of salt. Many of my thoughts on male sexuality do not align with his own, despite my efforts to try and convey that not all of his bed partners were female. 
> 
> For Bloody, who’s work and cheerleading constantly inspire me. Thanks love, and I hope you enjoy!

1  
  


Gawain had long been a protector of Galahad. Ever since they were recruited in the same sect, he felt protective of the shivering, scruffy, abrasive boy who reminded him of the younger brother the Romans left in the mud on the rainy night they’d taken him. 

They’d been inseparable for a long while, but Gawain could feel the moment Galahad had drifted away from hesitantly holding onto him for support to drifting after the ranger boy. At first, it was amusing, in a pitiful way, to see him stumble after the elusive Tristan like a puppy seeking attention. Soon it faded into the back of his mind, when Galahad and Tristan and the rest of the knights all individually grew closer, until it was no longer pitiful nor amusing when he’d gone from trailing after a shadow to fighting and living beside the man. And now, if he spotted one of them alone, Gawain would crane his neck and look around their shoulder to see where the other was. 

It was hardly a commodity for pairs of knights to exclusively grow incredibly close to each other, and the days when Galahad clutched at Gawain’s sleeve asking what he thought of the ‘hawk boy’ were mostly forgotten. 

Then, Galahad had been injured on the battlefield. 

It was hardly the first time Galahad had been injured before, but this was...different.

Different in the way that they were already grimly considering where to bury him and trying to remember the ceremonial rites of Galahad’s tribe when they’d dragged him back from the bloody field. 

There was a garish hole, running side to side across his stomach, and when he twitched or convulsed at odd intervals, rivulets of blood would seep through the pile of desperate hands trying to hold his body inside. Many of the knights who weren’t helping staunch the flow of blood looked away, others swore under their breath at the remarkable resemblance in shape to a sarmation curse, while the few meekest of them fled away to gag into bushes.

All but Tristan, who fell to his knees almost immediately after stumbling their way and joined his hands into the amalgamation gathered that pressed at Galahad’s stomach, mouthing prayers and near desperate pleas. The injured knight had all but screamed at the added pressure, face going a shade paler and even more twisted into frozen agony. Any time the memory resurfaced, Gawain shivered at the image of a young Galahad - with barely a scruff nor a scar - trembling and twitching violently under the weight of such pain that he could hardly make a sound anymore. 

By some miracle, they had managed to patch him up, and kept him alive long enough to make the weary journey back to the wall and into the physician’s care. Gawain stayed by Galahad’s side as much as he could bear, still unnerved by his pain and the feeling of his viscera squeezed beneath his fingers, to offer good enough comfort or company for the knight he still considered a younger brother. Many of the other, more superstitious of the knights were wary of Galahad, and the hex mark bitten into his abdomen. Too many memories of warnings told in the light of hearth fires as bedtime stories. And though Gawain believed he knew better than to let some hoax stop him from supporting his brother, he still felt a sort of dread tug in his chest for a long while whenever he looked at Galahad or the bandages at his stomach. 

But when he wasn’t there, Tristan was. Even on the occasions Gawain was at his bedside, Tristan was either close by, or at the other end of the bed clutching at Galahad’s hand and murmuring in his sarmatian dialect so far removed from Gawain’s that he could hardly understand the words that passed from his lips in such reverent tones. 

Galahad healed in slow increments. Soon, he woke long enough to hold brief conversations, though his gaze was hazy and words seemed nonsensical sometimes. Then he was able to squeeze back at any hand encompassing his own. Over the course of several moon cycles, Galahad was able to eat solid foods, sit up, annoy Tristan, until finally he was standing and walking and riding once more. The ugly slash across his abdomen became a gnarly scar, oft revealed on particularity drunk nights or in the Roman bath houses. It brought Galahad respect, and gave him his first battle story to slur through on late nights out in the ale house. 

Tristan always winced at any mention of said scar, something Gawain noticed (and couldn’t stop noticing after the first time it caught his eye) and sympathized with. The sight and tale always brought back the visceral memories of the day, though it served to frighten new recruits into revering and avoiding Galahad. 

Gawain always made sure to incline his cup in a silent toast of camaraderie to Tristan each time the wince appeared and story regaled. Now, they were the only two knights left alive who had felt the life blood and fragile insides of Galahad, while gripped with fear and pushing harder onto the cavern. 

Tristan never gave him any hint of acknowledgement, but Gawain liked to believe that they were both similarly burdened with the weight that came with becoming attached to Galahad like he was a younger brother (A younger brother whose life you had held together with your bare hands and prayed desperately to Roman and Sarmation gods alike for life, but a brother nonetheless).

  
  
2  
  


Before Bors had met Vanora, before he’d sired and raised a pack of rambunctious children, he’d considered Galahad something of a son. Of course, at first, he hadn’t been able to identify the feeling or the warm affection he held for the youngest knight, but when he’d had to wrestle his firstborn out of the dog kennel and into a bath, he understood. It was the same feeling that spread reluctantly and through loving exasperation at the antics of one held dear. When one daily questioned why, gods, _why_ did Bors indulge the mongrel with care if he would only do something so monumentally and endearingly stupid moments later. 

Oh how many times Bors asked himself that question. Not just with his children, mind, but he had been asking the question for years in regards to Galahad and his impulsiveness. Even still when the boy should be grown and mindful. 

Bors was asking himself that question just now, sending an exhausted prayer to the great guardian All-Father for strength. 

Somehow, Galahad had gotten himself stuck in a narrow ravine. How the curse of a knight had gotten himself into such a spot, Bors still couldn’t seem to fathom (He turns his back for _one moment_ ). 

They’d been sent on a short expedition to gather herbs and keep an eye out for information. Both he, Galahad, and Dagonet were in varying states of visual confusion at first when Arthur had delivered his orders, until he’d explained more of the nature of the mission.

“The Roman physicians of the court have heard tale of caves in these parts where great herbs hang from the walls and spill into the forest.” Arthur had began, hands steepled in front of his face. 

“Ah, wonderful, so send them.” Galahad nodded sagely before turning to go, obviously thinking the matter done and solved.

Bors rolled his eyes and Dagonet caught his collar as he turned without turning but an inch, hauling him back around with no effort, leaving Galahad looking like a kitten picked up by the scruff of its neck. 

“And I would tell them much the same, except the only caves that have these herbs have had Woad activity.” 

“What, so, the Woads have themselves the run of these herbs the Romans want so badly?” Bors ventured, uncaring whether or not a Roman died for a plant if it meant he didn’t have to part from his family. 

Dagonet broke the tense silence that descended when Arthur hadn’t responded; “Have they sent any of their own on an expedition?” 

Arthur’s lips thin, and he shakes his head once.

“But we know there’s native activity?” Galahad spat, venomous and fiery in his disdain for the men who had held them captive and bid them do trivial servants duties at a whim. Bors could understand his emotions, yet he still itched to cuff him over the head for the disrespect he bade their leader, who was an obviously unwilling messenger. 

The comment was met with a tired sigh from Arthur, and a slow nod, “Reports of the caves not three seasons ago can attest to this.” 

Galahad scoffed, and that time Bors really did cuff him over the head. They all knew how accurate a report from three seasons ago could be, and how quick the Romans would be to grasp at any excuse for the knights to undertake a task they deemed cumbersome. Still, that didn’t mean he had to voice his disdain aloud, he could’ve let it boil and fester inside until a drunken bar fight against some foolhardy Roman soldier released it like the rest of them.

Or, like most of them did. Tristan was the main exception to the rule, and many others, but that was dismissible. 

He was brought back to the present when the aforementioned knight came galloping around the bend in the road along side Dagonet, who’d gone back to the wall for help. Galahad’s horse was, thankfully, not trapped with him in the small rock cavity he’d fell down and was nickering happily at the sight of Tristan’s stallion. 

Bors could barley make out the shadowy figure of Galahad through the small hole he’d managed to break. His voice echoed back thin and reedy, calling out for help and swearing multitudes of pain if Bors or Dagonet ever spoke of this to anyone. If possible, Galahad’s tone seemed to pitch higher when Tristan called down to him. 

It was several hours and many lengths of rope later that Galahad finally emerged from his prison, dusted with dry dirt and rocks, a little scraped, and shamefaced. 

As soon as his shoulders had cleared the fissure, Tristan dropped his length of rope and left Bors and Dagonet digging their heels in and biting back curses to keep the rope taught and reeled so that Galahad wouldn’t fall. The tracker ran forward with a speed Bors hadn’t seen outside a battlefield and hauled Galahad out the rest of the way. 

Their arms stayed wrapped around each other for several lingering moments after Tristan had collapsed backwards with the weight of Galahad, and Bors thought he could hear frantic whispers from where he stood barely a stone’s throw away from them. 

“You embrace like parted lovers, surely the fall wasn’t half bad Galahad, eh?” Bors spoke up, when they’d entangled far longer than he’d anticipated. 

Dagonet huffed from where he was wrapping the lengths of rope they’d used, and Galahad and Tristan separated quickly from each other. The matter done with, they saddled their horses in silence and Bors had half a mind to ask after the nervous rattle in Galahad’s hands or the odd shutter of his face, but assigned it to the spirit of the afternoon and shock that it brought.

On the ride back to the wall, herb-less and cheerless, Galahad was oddly quiet. The young knight barely responded to the barbs Bors tried to engage him with and barely conceded with more than a pained grunt at any mention of the ravine or his clumsiness. 

The day went unmentioned, and the only outsider to learn of the accident and the failed expedition was Arthur, in their report. Soon enough, Bors forgot entirely of the ravine, how frantically Galahad and Tristan grappled at each other, and how stony the pair had turned at his well-natured jest.

  
  
3  
  


Lancelot did not pride himself on being the town gossip, but it wasn’t his fault that information happens to gather itself on his pillow after satisfied bed fellows floundered for reasons to stay a while longer in his chambers. And if the rumor spread that he’d trade a night of wild passion to learn of others dirty linens, who was he to dissuade the tragically average from clambering for his grace? 

No, Lancelot did not view himself as a god, despite how much he knows of the entire wall’s population. He preened inwardly at how heroically humble he was in this regard, truly, he’s the ideal man for all. The closest to divinity one could grasp in the dingy and death filled outpost. 

However, one tidbit seemed to have slid under his carefully weaved net for far too long. And now Lancelot had dedicated himself to righting this. 

He must know (he _must!_ ) whether or not Galahad had found himself a paramour. And if not, Lancelot would gallantly rectify this wrong. As their numbers dwindled, he found himself in need of a distraction to keep the mounting grief from becoming unbearable, and looking after the youngest knight had always been a handful and a half for Lancelot. 

So, when the topic of Galahad’s much contested innocence had been brought up once more when the ghost of another lost brother was drunk away into the night, Lancelot found a suitable alley for his attentions. 

“Come now Galahad, it’s getting less endearing and more tragic.” Bors commented on the subject, during the aforementioned grievous night. 

Galahad was bright red from the hem of his tunic all the way up to the tip of his ears, even visible from underneath his dark beard. He choked on his deep gulp of ale and was thrown into a coughing fit. 

Many of the other knights mustered half-hearted smiles or aborted laughs through their grief driven haze or drunken stupor. Gawain patted Galahad’s back, and Lancelot thought to lighten the mood for everyone’s benefit. 

“Oh, Galahad, your reaction is hardly reassuring. Have you never experienced the pleasures of the flesh-“ 

“That’s none of your business, and you have no right to criticize my bed when yours seems to have more partners going out than staying in!” Galahad practically shrieked, wide eyes joining his flushed complexion. 

Some other knights resurfaced into the conversation with increasingly genuine laughter and clearer sights. 

Lancelot swung his wine jug in a gesture to emphasize the knowledge he would bestow upon the poor boy. “I think that’s more of a testament to my prowess, is it not?” 

“I’d hardly think your ‘prowess’ is the reason why its always a different barmaid who lines up behind your door each night. More that the poor soul hadn’t been warned of your lack thereof.” Tristan cut in. 

The comment was unexpected, and threw Lancelot with the force of a strike. The tracker who usually sat separate and silent, always apart but close enough to listen in, seemed to materialize closer than Lancelot had last seen him. Tristan was leaned in front of Galahad, his shadow casting the young knight dark and hidden from the rest of them, almost like the Romans’ tall shields made for phalanx formations to weather arrows. 

Lancelot did not jump in shock from the quietly dangerous look that always danced across Tristans features, but he did pull back slightly and raise his hand in a placating gesture at the darker pull of the tracker’s frown and warning low in his tone.

“No, no, not that you would know. Though I can’t imagine why you would closely monitor my bed fellows, brother”, Something tight pulled in Tristan’s shoulders, and Lancelot quickly added, “They are hardly a sight to behold”, to try and make clear the comment’s jesting intentions, not wanting to anger the usually calm knight. 

Still, Tristan’s shoulders were coiled tight. But the most confusing part of the evening, and what cemented it’s place in his mind for the nights to come, was the expression on Galahad’s face. The young knight looked greatly pained, his features contorted much the same as they had been when he’d been run through the gut all those years ago. Pinched at the brows and mouth pulled at the corners, he had excused himself moments later and all Lancelot could think to himself was how he pitied the knight, for surely he must be embarrassed of his failure as a man. 

No, Lancelot decided he must remedy this. And in the following weeks, he questioned every one of his bed partners quite thoroughly of what they knew of Galahad’s night life. Word soon spread, despite his best attempts at being discreet, that if one wanted to enter the hallowed space between Lancelot’s legs and his linen sheets, then one must find out anything they could about Galahad’s intimacies (of which, there were none). 

Lancelot had even resorted to trying to convince previous partners to seduce Galahad and relieve him of his purity, though few accepted, or even pursued the youngest knight seriously. Lancelot stopped this too, soon enough, after he found himself contemplating ways to catch a long enough glimpse of how endowed his shield brother was to regale the few who asked with (possibly) embellished tales. 

That was not entirely what stopped him, but the taxing mission and battles that followed kept his mind far from thoughts of Galahad’s innocence and how to rectify it. And then, suddenly, everything was happening at once. The Saxons where attacking, their freedom was revoked, and Arthur was gazing at that Guinevere like she hung the stars, efficiently eviscerating any thoughts of Galahad and summoning a deep broiling _something_ to his belly. But for the girl, or for his leader, Lancelot was not sure. 

(Though, If Lancelot had paid more attention the fateful night he’d taken notice of Galahad’s relative inexperience and how quickly Tristan left after him, he may have had the thought to ask about the both of them. There, he would have found a multitude of answers pertaining to their relationship, and perhaps gained insight into the matters of his own heart.)

  
  
4  
  


Dagonet cared for Galahad. And he respected Tristan. 

He held neither excess affection nor emotion towards them, they were his shield brothers, his equals. That was all. 

The two had paired together surprisingly quickly, like a wolf and cub. They were drawn even closer when the youngest knight grew into himself and his bow. Though Galahad still exuded a playful, youthful nature like that of a cub with sparkling eyes and howl enthusiastically loud, yet too thin and high to be intimidating.

Some nights, when he had indulged too much in drink and in old memories, Dagonet would idly wonder when the cub might learn his claws were sharp and his lungs deeper than he knew. Not that the young knight wasn’t dangerous or deadly, but he still restrained himself and claimed disdain for his talent. 

A reluctant predator, or perhaps Galahad knew of his worth and capabilities. Perhaps he feared the line between man and monster, and didn’t know yet how far he’d passed that boundary. 

But that was not for him to know, and Dagonet didn’t let the thoughts linger except for in those melancholy musings that would trap his mind in philosophical circles until dawn broke and threw him into the harsh cycle that was life once more. 

Dagonet knew they cared deeply for each other, Tristan and Galahad. Knew it, saw it, not because he looked for it but because every action, every gesture or catching eye screamed of their closeness and attuned intimacy to anyone quiet enough to listen to the silence. 

It was almost alarming, in how intense the connection was and how calmly the two treated it, so Dagonet long decided to trust in their decision. He knew not the nature of their love, only that it surely must be love. No other word could describe it for Dagonet to find, and even then he did not think he’d wish to know it. The thing hissed and welded the two knights together, and Dagonet cared too suspiciously for his own broken, blackened, yet inexorably fragile heart to touch something so dangerous. 

So still, to him, they were simply Wolf and Cub, Shield-brothers, primal creatures bound by blood and war. 

He simply bid them silently and privately, to himself, that they would not hurt each other or sacrifice one for the other on the battlefield. Dagonet did not think that he could bare to loose two brothers to a sword, or worse, to a slow death of grief these days. 

And if Dagonet added them twice to his list of morning prayers, between the shortening list of his brothers and the constantly growing one of those he worried for in silence, then that was between him and his gods. 

(He hoped they listened.)

  
  
5  
  


On that fateful day, when they confronted the Saxon army, Arthur had lost himself in the power of the moment and lapsed into foolishly drunk confidence. So sure, was he, that they would all remain standing on the hill, victorious. 

As was similar with many battles, Arthur and his knights were grim and faced everything from the planning up to the actual execution with a sort of surety that they would die. 

But for some odd reason, Arthur was almost bewitched when his knights rejoined him on that hill, even after fulfilling their promise and having been released from their servitude. His mind was filled with heady, gloating pride when he saw them all racing back to join him, and quickly was chastised when Lancelot shot him a knowing grin, entirely familiar with the feeling of pride and how exactly emotions twisted Arthur’s features. 

After sending a quick prayer for forgiveness and wisdom for his penance to the heavens, Arthur had opened his eyes and shoved down the sinful urges with an acrid bile climbing up his throat. 

How brainless was he, to believe they would remain standing, all of them, together for once at last. Not even the sight of the vastness of the invading armies had deterred him, still small and hidden in his gut did the feeling fester, whispering tales of pride and blood and victory. Arthur spurned his horse down the hill and through the gates to confront their enemy, loosing entire control of his tongue when faced with a man so mad as to think of insulting his knights. 

Heavy pants were ripped from his throat as he rode back through the gates and up the road to the hill, which had entirely nothing to do with exertion, only with the shock that his words grew sharp fangs and how his mind latched on to ways of insulting the Saxon. Arthur shook himself, clenching every muscle in his body and releasing them at once to rid the tremors form him. His knights must not see them. 

Arthur delivered a speech to them instead, a clarion call for action and courage. These words had come easier, and with less regret. Talk of strength and loyalty and righteousness flowed like rivers from his head to his heart and spilled from his lips in rushing rivulets. Surely though, he had struck a cord this time, for when he turned his steed to rejoin their ranks the knights were invigorated and clenched their swords in eager hands. 

And when Lancelot was felled before his eyes, did all pride vanish from him. Any and all feeling suddenly replaced with a burning hot rage, and Arthur carved his way through the battle with a focus and hate that left no room for any other thought. 

It was a good thing, then, that when the smoke cleared and dust settled that he heard the wet rattle of Lancelot’s lungs. Arthur dropped to his knees and stayed with his knight, his closest brother, his _maxime diligitur_ , until far after their Woad allies pried Lancelot from his grasp to heal and treat him. 

Only after Lancelot had been carried away, his injuries treated as best as they could be right there in front of Arthur’s eyes, did he hear the shaky sobs and wails echoing across the battlefield. 

Galahad was howling and thrashing against a crowd of Woads and struggling against Gawain’s hold on him. Arthur rose from his protective crouch, stalking over to either admonish or help the knight, depending on what would greet him as he neared. 

The youngest knight was weeping, he realized, when he was close enough to see individual forms and faces. His eyes were trained on something on the ground, and every now and then he’d wrench an arm free from Gawain’s restraining grip to reach out to it with a sort of desperation Arthur hadn’t ever seen on him. Befuddled, Arthur followed his gaze and understanding dawned when the gathered Woads shifted enough for his gaze to reach the bent and broken body of Tristan. 

Acting quick, Arthur decided against Galahad’s heart and for Tristan’s safe, unhindered care. Though, looking back, he thinks his heart must have still bitterly ached from being parted from Lancelot, sinful in its want to disperse grief among those who were as unfortunate as he. Arthur stepped in front of Galahad, blocking his view of Tristan, and grabbed his outstretched hand by the wrist.

“Stand down, Galahad.” Injecting as much steel as he could into his voice, he beared the fury clouding Galahad’s eyes when they turned to him. 

“No! Move- _let me see_ him! Please! Just let me touch- “ He tried to bargain and struggled harder against the arms restraining him. 

“Galahad! That’s an order.” Arthur snapped, drawing out a wet sob from Galahad. 

The fiery hope and desperation in his eyes died out, his strength slowly seeping out of him, and only a few minutes passed before Galahad sagged against Gawain’s arms around his middle. He drifted down to his knees, bleak and bereaved. 

The place in his gut that once harbored a fierce, gluttonous voice, whispered that this was his fault. That Arthur sent his brothers to their deaths, that they will not heal from this and he will lose them all because of this. 

Arthur could not bear to look any longer at the hunched form of Galahad, crying silently with eyes only for glimpses of his closest brother and ignoring Gawain’s encouraging promises. Even he was tired of hearing the different iterations Gawain could phrase ‘ _He will_ survive _this Galahad, just you wait_ ’. 

So he turned, and he left. He left the last fault of his reign as general, no longer would he command soldiers or knights or brothers on a battlefield. Arthur vowed it with the ferocity of Galahad, the steadfast assurance of Gawain, the foolish obsoleteness of Bors, the silent loyalty of Dagonet, and the pride of his Lancelot. If Arthur’s pride had ruined them and they all leave when he turned his back, then he would carry all of them within his heart. 

  
  
+1  
  


Galahad had never feared for both their futures until the moment he’d been dragged from the unmoving figure of his battle-torn lover. He and Tristan had avoided too specific of wishes or conversation of it, but when they spoke of life after their servitude, it went unsaid that they would stay together. Even the thought of being without Tristan for more than expressly necessary was physically painful. 

Tristan always said he was the needier of the two, and whispered, equally, soft admonishments and fierce promises of undying love into his hair when they clutched at each other after being parted for longer than a few days. 

So the hours it took from the moment Galahad was wrenched from the sight of his injured Tristan, to the second Merlin allowed him visitors, were unbearable. Though he could hardly tell you just what happened between those two points, as his mind was aflame with sick certainty and grief Tristans unmoving form gave him. He spent the hours contemplating what he would do with Tristan gone, and how he could live without his heart, dying a slow death in the arms of strangers when he should be with _Galahad_. 

Seeing amber eyes open once more was like breathing again for the first time in weeks. Galahad realized he looked as thin and dirty as Tristan had when the knight blinked for a moment in confusion, as he’d gone unwashed and unkempt for fear of leaving his lovers side and returning to a still and stiff corpse. They had cried together, quietly and tenderly, with smiles on their faces and hands that wandered over each other in fierce longing. 

Tristan healed even slower than Galahad, yet his attitude was worse than Galahad’s had been all those years ago when he’d been bed bound in a similar condition. Tristan was long complaining before he’d even set a steady foot to the ground again. They spent his recovery bickering good-naturedly and with Galahad shooting down all of Tristan’s suggestions for more salacious exercise in the hastily constructed medical tent. Galahad ran out of excuses soon though, when red gashes faded into tender scars and bruises disappeared into large expanses of smooth skin once more. 

Their coupling was frantic in the heady emotions, though careful in practice. Full of sharp teeth and nails, but without punctured flesh. They reacquainted themselves wholly with the ebb and flow of pleasure through carnality, desperate for each other. 

After, when they lay together, panting with exhaustion and filled with sweet satisfaction, Tristan spoke first, managing though deep gasps his dreams of their future. Only that time, he spoke of quiet mornings and late nights to be shared between the two of them. 

With his fingers combing through Galahad’s hair, he gave voice to his wishes of a discreet cabin in the woods where they could spend the rest of their days in wilderness with nothing but each other. Galahad’s voice hitched in his throat, filled to the brim with emotion, and he managed to profess through silent tears how desperately he wished for that life. 

It was as good as - or even better than, in Galahad’s mind - any live ballad or poem of platitude, and though they were entwined so intimately and wholly, it was another matter entirely to confirm that it had been like this all along in such honest, dulcet tones. That they completed each other, as though leaving it unsaid might lessen the ache of the possibility of living without the other, who could’ve been torn from their side at any moment unceremoniously in blood and biting steel. 

So, weeks later, when Galahad came home to their new hut after wrestling a hunt from the forest to be greeted by wedding robes and prizes strewn across their shared bed, he froze. Tristan stood by the incriminating pieces and seemed to have drawn a veil of stoicism across his features to distract from the uncertainty that this weighty gesture held. They stood for a moment, facing each other, before Galahad reached a tentative hand to stroke the hem of the tunic to be sure it was real. As soon as Galahad’s fingers met the frayed edge did he whirl around and fling himself into the arms of his lover. 

Utterly overwhelmed with emotion, he clutched Tristan’s shoulders and asked over and over again in the language of their forefathers if this was real, if Tristan meant it, and if he wasn’t dreaming. To his credit, Tristan met each question and held Galahad with the same intensity, kissing him senseless when Galahad didn’t stop his rambling, and calling him his pup in grumbling murmurs between their bruising lips. 

Galahad melted into the firm pressure, resting against the warm line of Tristans body. They tumbled in a flurry of limbs onto the warm rug by the fire, as Galahad was fearful of disturbing the dazzling offerings his lover had presented him with. 

Oh, how wonderful it felt to be desired as such, to be seen as someone Tristan wished to bind his soul to, and love forever. 

Galahad rode his lover right there on the floor, ignoring his aching scars and focusing entirely on the sheer adoration that filled Tristans eyes. He wished to give back the same love, assure him that Galahad wanted this, to be bound unequivocally and exclusively to Tristan. 

He finally found the words to translate the overflowing feeling that clawed in his ribs, panting through the aftershocks, with the same breathiness that his lover had just those few weeks ago. Tristan was still clenched tight within Galahad’s body, the still present rough slide ached wonderfully, even after he rolled them so that every part of them was pressed together. 

“Truly?” He had whispered, awestruck and reverent into the scant space between his lips and Galahad’s.

“Truly, my heart. As fiercely as all the stars in the sky.” Galahad responded, punctuating the words with a soft kiss. 

Tristan laughed at his whimsy, but surrendered his mouth just as quickly to other sounds, and soon they were tumbling into passion again.  
  
Galahad and Tristan were married in the late spring, on a hot afternoon, just close enough to the coming summer that the evening festivities were justified in their scant clothing for the heat. 

They wedded with all their remaining brothers and found family in attendance, to the ongoing bewilderment of Arthur, who looked like a lost puppy for the entire ceremony. He, of all the knights left, still floundered at the subject of Tristan and Galahad’s relationship. 

At first, when Galahad had announced their intention to bind in wedding, the knights were all shocked. None had thought of him and Tristan as anything other than extremely close brothers, and were all in similar states of disbelief. Vanorra had smiled, congratulated them, and smacked Bors about the head before scolding him for being rude. Gawain was the next to recover, quickly offering his support and help in the planning. Lancelot was next, and then Bors, but Arthur was left floundering in his visible perplexion, dismissively offering well wishes before stalking away.

Galahad was worried, at first, but that was until Guinevere approached him the next day with mischief sparkling in her eyes. She’d thanked him for making her night with his announcement, and reassured him that Arthur didn’t disapprove, but had been wholly confused of the last 15 years and what he had missed. Galahad had laughed, before embracing her to try and communicate the relief she’d bestowed upon him. 

All too soon, and not soon enough, the day had arrived. 

Bors presided over the ceremony. Not for his grace, but because their customs demanded a father to officiate, and he was the closest to a father figure Galahad had ever had. Tristan didn’t lend any thought to the fact that this meant he would also be considered a son of Bors, as he only had eyes for his Pup. 

And _oh_ his Galahad, who looked stunning with flowers threaded into his hair and bands of gold around his neck and arms. They’d both shaved, for the symbolism of clean and honest faces going into their partnership, and for the suffering heat that would quickly descend in the coming months. With both their hair pulled back, Galahad found he was as equally obsessed with the newly exposed, clean planes of Tristans face as Tristan was with the delicate arch of his uncovered chin and lips. 

The ceremony carried on, despite their distraction, with Gawain binding their hands and arms to each other, briefly sparing a fortifying grin to Galahad and a reassuring squeeze to their shoulders. Bors recited a lilting verse, proclaiming the sanctity of this bond and asking for the blessings of the gods to keep both Tristan and Galahad’s souls together through life and death. 

Normally even the subject of death would be practically heresy in a Sarmation wedding ceremony such as this, and in the corner of his eye Galahad could see Lancelot and Bors both wince slightly at the omen, but Tristan had specifically asked for the addendum to be added. Galahad cared neither way, but when confronted with a locked jaw and the determination in Tristans eyes, he agreed. 

As soon as the needed words were exchanged, and their arms unbound, did the music begin. It was by no means traditional Sarmation wedding music, with its pounding drums and strong vocals, but a near incoherent mesh of Roman and Woad instruments, with the occasional authentic verse called out by Vanora or Lancelot. 

It was perfect. 

Galahad clutched Tristans hand, pulling him close for a kiss. Their first shared as husbands, and with just the right edge of teeth and tongue to ignite both filthy pleasure and innocent delight in Galahad’s stomach. Insides twirling madly, uncurling and fluttering in frantic spasms, Galahad drew Tristan back to him to steal one more before pulling him by the arm to the festivities ahead, eager to be done with it all and tumble to bed. 

That night, they danced with enough fervor and bared skin on display to offend sensibilities and fuel the especially rowdy into corralling them to their marriage bed.

And when Galahad wakes the next day, entangled with the naked body of his husband (his _husband!_ ), he knows he could never want for anything else in life. This grumbling, snoring, bear of a man, who he had dedicated the rest of his life to years ago, as a young boy who’d been enchanted by the silent ranger with his dark eyes and sure aim. 

He was home.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> How was it? Lemme know in the comments!
> 
> I love weddings fics. That last bit was purely indulgent, and I didn’t base any of the traditions on anything specific, just wanted to write a wedding for our chainmail boys 🤍
> 
> Your comments scream at the knights for being so dumb, your kudos throw flower petals and squeal over the happy couple.


End file.
